As Soon As Possible
by yellowcrayon7
Summary: Soon after Lestrade and Sherlock meet, Sherlock finds himself in a bit of a predicament and must call on the Detective Inspector for help. Lestrade ends up stuck with a concussed consulting detective and must take care of him. Pre-series, not slash.
1. Chapter 1

**This takes place around 2003, very near the beginning of Sherlock's career as a consultant and will be in a couple parts. The backstory I'm assuming is that Lestrade forced Sherlock to go clean before letting him work with the Yard. It's meant to explore the mentorship and frustrated admiration of Lestrade, as well as the trust Sherlock has for him. Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or the show, obviously… **

Sherlock sighed and tried to stand up. His bruised ribs protested and his head swam at any attempt at movement. So nope, bad idea, staying on the ground for now.

He reached for his phone and was relieved to find it undamaged. With shaking fingers, he composed a text to DI Lestrade. He still wasn't sure what to think about the detective inspector, but Lestrade seemed trustworthy. He was, after all, the one who let Sherlock in on the case in the first place, albeit accidentally.

Tracked suspect to warehouse on the corner of 3rd and St. James. He is restrained. Please come as soon as possible. –SH

That didn't sound like begging, he thought. It was also mostly true, except for the restrained part. The suspect was actually lying unconscious on the warehouse floor currently. Restraint could be arranged, though, thought Sherlock as he slowly dragged himself to his feet, ignoring the temporary loss of vision and immense pain in his side. His stomach roiled, and he was glad he'd barely eaten anything all day. Or the day before. Diagnosis: mild to moderate concussion, 3 ribs bruised, none broken.

The large, mostly abandoned warehouse came back into focus as Sherlock leaned against a pillar, breathing sharply through clenched teeth. The suspect would regain consciousness in a matter of minutes. To start off, Sherlock tied his scarf tightly around the man's wrists behind his back, but it wouldn't last. Neither would Sherlock's strength, as upon a second attempt to stand and procure the roll of duct tape he'd noticed in the random debris on the warehouse's shelves, he collapsed to his knees and endured several rounds of dry heaving.

When his stomach had settled a bit, Sherlock slowly walked to the shelf where the dusty tape sat, bracing himself against the wall with a bloody, trembling hand the whole way. It took all of his remaining strength to drag the unconscious man across the floor to the nearest pillar. Once the suspect was thoroughly secured to the pillar with his hands behind his back, Sherlock didn't even have the energy left to tear off the tape. His eyes were heavy and every time he moved it felt like his brain was ripping apart.

When the police entered the warehouse, Lestrade at the head with his gun drawn, Sherlock was slumped against a wall, head in his hands. Lestrade commanded a few of the officers to check on the suspect and handcuff him, and turned to his consulting detective with a worried look.

"Sherlock! You alright?"

Sherlock lifted his head slightly. "Took you long enough," he drawled, before letting his head fall back and groaning.

Lestrade rushed forwards and crouched next to him. "Sherlock? Talk to me, where are you hurt?" he asked.

Sherlock didn't bother to lift his head, and when he spoke his words were slurred and pained. "He… hit me with the… the gun in the corner," he gestured vaguely and Lestrade shouted for someone to get it, "Got concussion… couple bruised ribs… nothing major. Just need… couple minutes."

Lestrade stood to observe the handcuffing of the suspect, who was gradually coming to. Sherlock looked up as the suspect grumbled, "Whassa? Tha' freak— Knocked me out!"

"Self-defense!" cried Sherlock from the floor, breath strained. Lestrade turned back to him and leaned over to inspect the head wound. He pushed the younger man's curly fringe out of the way, trying to be gentle. Sherlock winced.

Lestrade stood and pulled out his phone, "I'm calling an ambulance."

Sherlock groaned. "No… no hospital."

"No arguments."

Sherlock tried to push himself off the ground, but Lestrade held him down with a firm hand on his shoulder. Sherlock reached up to clutch at his wrist desperately. "No. Hospital." Lestrade crouched down, trying to meet Sherlock's unfocused gaze.

"Come on, kid. You'll be okay."

"I know," said Sherlock, "I'll… call a… a cab."

Lestrade sighed. "Can you even stand up?"

Sherlock tried to hoist himself up using the wall. His legs were shaking and there was a fuzzy blankness taking over his vision, but he made it to his feet. Blinking furiously, he swayed a bit, before Lestrade's hand on his shoulder steadied him. "Okay, I'm taking you to the emergency room right now."

Sherlock shrugged off Lestrade's hand and backed up to lean on the wall. "You have… to arrest—"

"They're taking him away, they don't need me." Sherlock looked up and took in the rest of the scene. It was true, Sergeant Donovan was nodding her agreement as Lestrade motioned her to go on without him.

Sherlock mumbled, "I don't… need you either."

Lestrade ignored the consultant's feeble attempts to swat him away and pulled the younger man's arm over his shoulder, grabbing him by the waist. Sherlock cried out in pain, and Lestrade loosened his grip slightly. "Sorry, Sherlock. I'm taking you to the hospital."

In a sudden burst of adrenaline, Sherlock attempted to push away the older man, making it a few steps away before his vision clouded over completely and his head spun. He felt hands grip his shoulders just before his knees collide with the ground and suddenly Lestrade's voice was very close. "Work with me here, I'm trying to help."

Sherlock took a deep, wheezy breath. There was panic in his voice, uncharacteristic of his usual deep tone. "The hospital— they'll give me… for the pain… I can't…"

It dawned on Lestrade what Sherlock meant. The man had only been fully clean for a couple of weeks, and one dose of morphine or a few Oxycontin could set him back months. "Hey," Lestrade started, cupping the back of Sherlock's drooping head, "I'll take care of that, okay? I'll make sure they don't give you anything, don't worry. You just have to get that looked at."

Sherlock's vision cleared enough for him to make eye contact with the inspector, who was examining him with genuine concern. He started to stand, and Lestrade helped pull him to his feet. "Okay," he said thickly, leaning heavily on the older man as they made their way out to the car.


	2. Chapter 2

Lestrade deposited Sherlock in the passenger seat, where he leaned his head back and took slow breaths. The drive to the hospital was short, but he kept glancing over to make sure Sherlock wasn't falling asleep. After a few minutes, Sherlock's eyes slid closed and Lestrade reached over to shake him awake.

"Hey!" said Sherlock weakly.

"Sorry, can't let you fall asleep," replied the inspector gruffly.

Sherlock pulled his feet up onto the dashboard and braced his elbows on his knees, rubbing at his forehead. "That's a… myth." He swallowed thickly and groaned.

Lestrade sighed inwardly at the dirt the detective was getting all over the dashboard, but decided against mentioning it. He looked over worriedly at his injured companion, who was going deathly pale. "You gonna be sick?"

Sherlock started to shake his head before resorting to speech. "No… haven't eaten… two days."

"Good God, man. Just… hang in there, we're almost to the hospital." Lestrade sped up a bit.

"I bled on you," said Sherlock blandly. Not quite an apology, but it would do.

Lestrade sighed as he pulled into a parking space. "You're not the first." He half-carried Sherlock into the ER and set him down on a chair in the waiting room, patting him bracingly on the arm before approaching the desk. He came back with several forms and a cup of water, which Sherlock sipped at with a shaky hand.

"Okay…" he started off, "Date of birth?"

Sherlock had seemed to wake up a bit in the warm light of the ER, but still looked pale and clammy. "5th October, 197…7." He lowered his head into his hands slowly, giving a slight involuntary groan. "Feel sick."

Lestrade grabbed a plastic wastebasket from the corner and shoved it into Sherlock's hands. The concussed young detective proceeded to throw up the water he'd just drunk and then intermittently dry heave for a few minutes. Lestrade took the seat next to him and patted Sherlock's back as he leaned over the trash can. After a moment, Sherlock wiped his mouth on his sleeve and set the can on the ground next to him. He slumped down in the seat until his head rested on the back of the chair. "Sorry," he croaked.

Lestrade sighed and dug a pack of gum out of his pocket. He held a piece out to Sherlock. "Don't worry about it. It's nicotine gum, if that's okay. Spearmint." Sherlock accepted the gum, stuck it in his mouth, and muttered an honest thanks. Lestrade noticed a sheen of cold sweat had collected on Sherlock's forehead, along with the now caking blood, and pulled out a handkerchief, handing it to the younger man. Sherlock buried his face in the cloth, then tried to give it back, but Lestrade motioned for him to hold on to it.

They'd been waiting for at least ten minutes now, and Lestrade was getting anxious as he filled out the rest of the forms, occasionally requiring a terse detail from Sherlock. More than once he had to snap his fingers in front of the detective's face to keep him alert.

Finally, a nurse called out, "Mr Holmes." Lestrade helped Sherlock up and led him down the hallway to the small room that the nurse pointed out. He was mostly able to walk by himself, but appreciated Lestrade's steadying hand on his arm.

"Are you family?" the nurse asked Lestrade.

"No," he said, "I'm a—"

Well, friend wasn't quite the word for it. "Colleague. He's a bit scared of hospitals, though—"

"Am not," interjected Sherlock in pained annoyance.

The nurse looked apologetic. "Sorry sir, we only allow family back here, you'll have to stay in the waiting room."

Lestrade sighed and pulled out his badge, giving her a pointed look.

"Oh!" she said. "I'm sorry, Detective Inspector, go ahead. A doctor will be with you in a minute, Mr Holmes, in the meantime, please put on this gown."

Sherlock turned to give his colleague a lopsided grin. "Now she'll… think I'm some sort of… convict."

"You basically are," Lestrade reminded him. He nodded towards the curtained area in the corner of the room. "You can manage?"

"Yes," said Sherlock stubbornly, pulling the curtain shut. Lestrade took a seat in the chair by the bed and tried to ignore the sharp intakes of breath and sounds of stumbling as Sherlock undressed.

After a moment, a newly-changed Sherlock emerged and gratefully sat down on the folded-vertical bed, letting his head fall back into pillow with a relieved sigh. He looked painfully thin in the hospital gown, Lestrade noticed. Sherlock hummed in satisfaction and closed his eyes. "Hey now, don't fall asleep," said Lestrade.

Sherlock frowned and glared at him. "I'm in a… bed, what am I supposed… to do?"

"You could start by telling me what happened."

Sherlock looked at the detective with genuine apology in his eyes, along was it a touch of... was it fear? "Hard to… speak. Tell you later?"

Lestrade nodded, brow furrowing in concern. He reached over to ruffle Sherlock's untidy hair, careful to avoid the swollen gash on his forehead. Sherlock raised an eyebrow but did not protest. "No problem. It'll be okay, kid." Sherlock gave a slight nod and closed his eyes again slowly. "Sherlock?" Lestrade asked gently.

"Not sleeping," replied the detective. "Just… my head. Hurts."

Lestrade sat back in his chair, satisfied that Sherlock wasn't passing out on him. "'Course," he said. "I'll see if I can get you some ibuprofen."

Sherlock opened his eyes, and Lestrade could see the fear there. "Not… don't… morphine. Can't have… morphine."

"I know. I got it. Just relax."

Sherlock sighed and narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing Lestrade, who was flipping through a magazine he'd taken from the waiting room. "How long… have you been sleeping… on the sofa?" he asked bluntly.

Lestrade sighed, knowing better than to argue. "About a week now."

"You got… flowers but that's not what she… wanted. She's mad you work all the time…. Right? Says you wake… her up when you come in late but… really she's just annoyed… wants you to change priorities."

Sherlock was spot on, as usual, and it annoyed Lestrade to no end. "What is this, an interrogation?" he said a bit gruffly.

"I'm just… relaxing. I… apologize," and Lestrade could tell that in this addled state, or maybe any state really, Sherlock just couldn't tell when a line had been crossed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Thanks to those who reviewed the last couple chapters; your comments are much appreciated! The next chapter is nearly finished so it should be up in a few days. Once again, I don't own the characters or the show.  
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The DI was saved from any further inquiries by the entrance of a doctor, a small woman with a touch of an Indian accent. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes, admitted with suspected concussion and bruised ribs from an altercation," she read off the chart. "Hello, I'm Dr. Charya. All right, now if you could tell me what happened and what symptoms are you experiencing?"

Lestrade glanced at Sherlock, who nodded slightly. "Well, I didn't see the fight, but he was hit in the head with a handgun and kicked in the chest several times. He's also suffering from exhaustion brought on by several days without food or sleep."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at this last part. The doctor listened to his heart, examined the wound, and tenderly felt around his ribs. Lestrade watched as Sherlock tried not to cry out, and merely choked out a tense "Yes" when she asked if it hurt. She made Sherlock follow a light with his eyes, during which his hands were clenched around fistfuls of the fitted sheet in terrible pain.

Sherlock looked not only smaller in the hospital gown than in his trademark wool coat, but also younger, Lestrade noted. He wasn't as skinny as when Lestrade had first met the kid, but his arms were slender and barely darker than the white bedsheets. Only Sherlock's steel grey eyes indicated his true age.

The doctor took Sherlock's wrist and gently lifted it to take his pulse. There, in the crook of his arm, were the almost-faded track marks. Lestrade could remember when they were still an angry shade of red, the needle marks scabbing, Sherlock's pale eyes dilated beyond recognition. Now, the pinkish lines barely showed on his skin.

Lestrade was secretly relieved for this proof that the man was no longer using. A while ago he'd nearly overdosed, disappeared for a few months, and returned completely lucid. It seemed he was on the wagon. Of course, with Sherlock you could never really know. He could probably still solve crimes better than Scotland Yard while he was coked up. At first Lestrade had been worried about the drug use because of his own reputation, and then because the kid was no use to them dead. Now, he realized, looking at the 26-year-old's long, pale fingers trembling from pain, he was worried for Sherlock's sake. Hell, he'd actually become a bit fond of the kid. As cruel as he could be, Sherlock was refreshingly honest.

Dr. Charya stepped back and delivered the diagnosis to both men. "Well, you were right about the concussion. It's not major but it will probably take a couple of weeks to fully recover. We recommend taking it easy and limiting any physical or cognitive activity. You may find reading difficult. The nausea and dizziness should fade fairly quickly, but the fatigue and headache will last longer.

"You also have several bruised ribs, though none of them are broken. Unfortunately there's not much we can do for that other than wait for them to heal. Taking slow, deep breaths and avoiding unnecessary speech will help minimize the pain. You should be able to breathe normally in a few short days, and the chest pain will fade soon after that. I recommend that you stay the night here, but you'll be free to go home in the morning after another quick exam. Can your father give you a ride home?" she asked, nodding towards Lestrade.

Lestrade gave a short laugh and said, "God, no!" At the doctor's alarmed stare, he continued, "Sorry, just… father? Do I really look that old?"

"Oh dear," stammered the doctor, "Of course not, I apologize for making the assumption… you're his brother?"

"Colleague," responded Lestrade a bit forcefully. "But yeah," he added, recovering, "I can drive him."

Throughout this exchange Sherlock was starting at the ceiling, his mouth quirked in an amused grin as he tried not to laugh.

The doctor smiled, and there was an awkward moment of silence.

She regained her composure to say, "Now Mr. Holmes, if you'd like I can give you something for the pain—"

"No," Sherlock interrupted firmly.

Lestrade hurried to explain. "He can't have anything strong, what about ibuprofen?"

The doctor nodded. "Less effective, but it will help. Take the highest dose possible for at least the next two days but don't exceed that dosage. Now, I'm sending in a nurse to clean and bandage your head wound, but luckily you won't need any stitches. Shall I have her bring you anything to eat or drink?"

He shook his head slightly, and Lestrade answered, "Well, he can't keep much down, but he's barely eaten this week."

Dr. Charya nodded again. "I can give you an over-the-counter anti-nausea medication that's very safe. Not strong, but it will help you get a bit of food in your system."

Sherlock considered for a moment, and said, "Okay."

The doctor smiled and said, "Feel better, Mr. Holmes, and call us if anything worsens." She turned to leave

Lestrade stopped her to ask, "Is he allowed to sleep?"

She responded briskly, "Yes, that is a common myth. As long as you wake him up every two hours to check on him, he is welcome to go to sleep."

Once she exited, Sherlock grinned. "I had noticed… you're graying… a bit."

Lestrade glared. "Wait 'til you're my age."

Sherlock frowned playfully. "Hey now… I think it's… dignified. Your wife… thinks it's… sexy… by the way."

"What?" said Lestrade, trying to sound disinterested, rather than the combination of hopeful and flustered he actually felt. "Why do you say that?"

"Since the grey… it's all… mussed with more," he took a rattling breath, "than before. She must… like it. Don't… dye it… then she'll… actually leave you."

Lestrade was too dumbstruck to respond for a moment. Sherlock Holmes, giving him romantic advice? He chose to ignore the part where Sherlock somehow knew his wife had been talking of leaving him, and instead responded with a stubborn, "I'd never dye my hair."

Sherlock gave him a sad, knowing smile. "She does… love you, you know," he said, his breathlessness catching up with him. His deep baritone was soft as he spoke. "You'll… work it out… so long as you don't… do something," gasp, "incredibly stupid." A pause, during which Sherlock put on his deep-thinking face. "I'd give it… 46%... chance of success… higher than… the national average," he finished brightly.

"Hey, she told you not to talk," grumbled Lestrade, annoyed that Sherlock was always right. It was no wonder, really, that he was so arrogant.

Miraculously, the detective stayed silent. It must really hurt to speak then, Lestrade figured. There were a few minutes of silence broken only by Sherlock's labored breaths. Lestrade supposed he could probably work on his bedside manner. "Just," he started, clearing his throat, "Try to get some sleep."

Sherlock grinned and closed his eyes. "Told… you it's a… myth."


	4. Chapter 4

**This one's a bit shorter, sorry! There's going to be at least one more chapter, maybe a couple more, if people are interested?**

About fifteen minutes later, the same nurse who'd led them to the room walked in with a tray full of antiseptic and bandages and awoke Sherlock from a half-slumber. He had never quite fallen asleep, Lestrade knew, because he kept taking annoyed deep breaths and half-coughing.

The nurse had a hesitant smile, and approached Sherlock's bedside carefully. "Hello again, Mr. Holmes. Inspector." She nodded towards Lestrade. "Now, I've just got to clean up your head wound. Any allergy to latex?"

"No," mumbled Sherlock, who was barely hanging on to consciousness in his comfortable bed.

She pulled on a pair of bright purple latex gloves. First, she wiped his face clean with a wet flannel, washing away blood both dried and fresh. Lestrade had barely noticed how much the wound was bleeding, more concerned about the concussion, but now he observed the slow trickle of blood. Once Sherlock's face was more or less clean, the nurse poured some alcohol onto a cotton cloth. "This might sting a bit," she said. Sherlock closed his eyes as she gently swabbed the area. He stiffened for a moment, but didn't make a sound. "Something hit you pretty good, huh? What happened?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Pistol-whipped by a serial rapist."

The nurse's hand faltered and she almost dropped the cloth. "Oh! My goodness." Lestrade fought the urge to roll his eyes. Sherlock could be so dramatic.

"There we go!" she chirped nervously, and set aside the cloth to reach for some bandages. Lestrade went back to his magazine, deciding that even reading about some supermodel's shotgun wedding was better than watching this nurse do a fairly decent impression of that new mortician girl.

Once Sherlock's forehead was covered with a layer of gauze and taped up, the nurse prepared a little plastic cup of pills and held it out to the detective along with a cup of water.

"Here we go, Ibuprofen and Dramamine." He could barely keep his hand steady, and Lestrade rose to assist the poor young nurse tip the pills into Sherlock's mouth and help him lean forward to swallow the water. "You know," the nurse said cheerfully, "If you're afraid of needles, we have several stronger painkillers than don't have to be delivered intravenously."

"Not… scared!" Sherlock protested, and then in a lower, confidential voice, "Just a… recovering _addict_… is all." Lestrade could have sworn he winked at the nurse, who immediately stepped back and grabbed the tray, nearly tripping over her own feet.

"Someone will be in to bring you some food in the next few minutes. It was lovely to meet you, Mr. Holmes. Do feel better and remember there's a nurse on call all night if you need anything," she rambled as she backed out of the room.

"Was that really necessary?" Lestrade asked once the nurse had scurried away down the hall. "Now she's scared sick."

Sherlock waved his arm weakly, dismissing the matter. "Oh, hardly," he coughed. "She knows… I'm in… capable hands," he remarked. Lestrade was surprised and a bit concerned, as this was perhaps the nicest thing Sherlock had ever said to him. Usually it was some variation on, "You're not quite as stupid as the others."

After a glance at Lestrade's appreciative expression, Sherlock added, "Relatively."

A tired-looking orderly walked in, carrying a tray with a variety of snacks—several packets of saltines, a pudding cup, a can of apple juice, and a small bag of peanuts. "Dinner ended hours ago, so this is all we've got. I can get you more of anything, though, if you'd like," he explained, setting the tray in front of the emaciated detective.

Sherlock surveyed the food with an air of faint disgust. "Not hungry. Coffee?" he asked the orderly.

"Oh, sorry sir, we don't serve anything with caffeine here. I'll just leave this here, if you want anything later." Lestrade was inwardly relieved about the coffee. The young consulting detective would be considerably less trying asleep. The orderly nodded politely and exited.

Lestrade sighed as Sherlock eyed the food suspiciously. "Come on, lad, you've got to eat something. You still feeling nauseous?"

Sherlock glared. "No. Bit dizzy… is all. And not… hungry."

"Well, I'm no doctor—"

Sherlock cut in to mumble, "That's… painfully obvious," but Lestrade ploughed ahead.

"But that sounds to me like low blood sugar." Sherlock rolled his eyes but before he could protest, Lestrade took on the calm warning voice he'd found quite effective in dealing with his young nephews, and said, "I don't care if you're hungry, you need food. So eat up. Now."

Sherlock didn't respond, but reached for the peanuts and tore open the little package with a vicious swipe of his thumbnail. He munched on them resentfully for a couple of minutes while Lestrade looked on approvingly. The younger man's eyelids were drooping, and after a minute he crumpled up the empty wrapper and pushed away the food tray, which Lestrade quickly prevented from crashing to the floor and set down on the bedside table. He supposed that was the best he could do for the moment. Perhaps when Sherlock woke up his appetite will have returned, he reasoned.

"Sleep now?" Sherlock asked, his words slurring. Lestrade stood and the bedside to meet his clear gray-blue eyes, and nodded. "You'll… stay." It was neither a question or a command, more of a curious observation.

Lestrade nodded again. "I'll stay." He patted Sherlock's head, running his fingers briefly through the mop of curls. "Get some rest."

Sherlock's mouth twitched with the shadow of a smile and he closed his eyes. "Always so… sentimental," he murmured, with only a hint of contempt on the last word, before letting himself fall into the dark comfort of unconsciousness that had been threatening to claim him for hours.

Lestrade sighed and leaned back in his chair. Yep, he was going to be fine.


End file.
